Denman Daybreak

On the beaches before sunrise, the Earth is breathing at points such as this, my new home. The ocean has receded overnight to leave a blanket of life that pops like a bowl of Rice Krispies. Broken shells like litter, runoff streams like gutters, every movement detectable. Failing sleep, a crescent moon, and shortness of breath have combined to lure me outside to watch the eastern horizon and take in this morning in all its subtle glory. At first, it's mostly black out, the stars enjoying their remaining moments on the stage. The first sign of movement is that of three sea birds paddling near the beach together, taking turns dipping under the surface -- barely visible against the water in the faint daylight. A deep red ribbon glows upwards to trace the mainland mountains, a blurred buffer between night and day. The odd cricket chirp finds its way to my ears from the land behind me, but it's the water and beach I am focused on. The flap of wings cuts the silence directly overhead, and I watch that creature fly down the beach -- its movements give it away as a bat out for a bedtime snack. The sky is shifting from black to blue, the stars stepping aside for their distant cousin to take over the show for a while. I hear a series of loud splashes out in the channel, something large is breaking the surface: seal, big fish, whale maybe? Sea gulls are working together to find the best food patches, calling up and down the beach to one another. In time I'll see some of them bickering over morsels but for now they are a spread-out network of cooperation. The sky is hilighted with cotton candy pink clouds by now. A rooster crows over on Hornby, and one answers from our side. I hear something from down the beach to the north that sounds like a car approaching on pavement, but soon realize it to be tidal waters pulling rocks over one another. It's a bit cold on my bare feet in rubber boots, but I decide to stay put for the sunrise. An aircraft passes by from the south, strobes flashing, its own sound trailing behind -- must be headed up to Alaska. I finally do hear a truck's engine, across the water on Hornby. Also a camper snoring about a hundred yards away in his tent. The roosters are really going now, and a bunch of crows have showed up on the scene for some breakfast. The deep, unmistakable squawk of a heron breaks over the water -- her grace in flight keeps my eyes until she finds her landing spot. My attention shifts to the horizon as the clouds around the sunrise point are quickly warming from pink to a fiery bright orange. For several minutes it seems as if the glow can get no brighter, but it does. When the Sun first pops over the mountains, everything changes. The bird calls spike for maybe 10 seconds, obviously they're enjoying it as much as I am.